I've read this book probably about five, maybe six times over the years, and I've browsed it more times than I can count. I first read it when I was in middle-school, and recently I was gifted it by a friend, whereupon I read it twice more in the span of a few days. This book has a long history for me, and over the years it has come to mean much more.
I won't bother with a summary, because it seems as if every other review of this book has at least a paragraph dedicated to summarizing it. In short: the novel is about a rifle and a boy, and it's still just as heart-wrenchingly beautiful and sad as the first time I read it.
One of the gripes many people have with this book is that it's short and it's fast. The pages are small and the text is large, but somehow that only adds to the experience of reading it. Unlike so many books nowadays it's easy to get into and easy to finish, and a lot of people mistake this to mean that The Rifle is a simple book, meant for children. I would (and do!) argue vigorously against this. It might be small, but I haven't read a work of Paulsen's that doesn't deal with themes adults need to address as much as children.
If you're reading in broad strokes, then the novel is about gun safety, the value of history and well-honed craft, and the brief, sharp tragedy of chance. But the beauty of the book is in the details. It's short and compact but there is some kind of well-built strength in every sentence, every paragraph. It's as if Paulsen took the same care in assembling this book that Cornish McManaus, the gunsmith who built The Rifle, did in assembling his masterpiece. His visual detail, though spare, is all well-applied; he's a master of letting the reader fill in the gaps, although this assumes that the reader is of a certain background and will have those experiences to draw on. He builds characters in mere paragraphs, fleshes them out in a couple of pages. And he is capable of making you care about those characters, if you let yourself. Yes, there are stereotypes, but I'm willing to let them pass without comment—some stereotypes do have a basis in reality. And though the true beauty of this book is that it is all equally beautiful, my personal favorite section has to be The Boy.
Nowhere have I grown to grow to care about characters so quickly. The boy is never even named, never described beyond a sketch, and grows up through a period of fewer than fifteen pages from the age of one month to adolescence—but I know him, I feel for him, and (though I won't spoil the book by saying what happens) I was brought low by the ending. Paulsen does such an amazing job guiding the reader through the boy's interests, his struggles, his friends—his pets—that in only those few pages I came to care more than I have for many characters in other, much longer novels.
Much of my appreciation for this book is newly-found, I'll admit. It's only now that I've done some growing up that I can really see everything that Paulsen was getting at, and when I was the same age as this boy I wasn't as inclined to think of his character as memorable or even significant. But now that I'm older and I can look back with some time between me and him, I can see just how masterful Paulsen was in writing the way he did, and I can't say this strongly enough: read this book. You may regret it, you may not like it, or it may just not be for you—but if it is, and if you like it, then it just might become as significant for you as it was for me.